


Opposite Neighbours - Johnlock (Christmas themed)

by OnlyForward



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: ??? - Freeform, AU, Christmas, John - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, MeetCute, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyForward/pseuds/OnlyForward
Summary: From the minute Sherlock sees “the boy with the pink cheeks” laughing with his sister on Christmas Day he knows he’s doomed.Drabble about how Sherlock sees John grow up with every Christmas and then, eventually, they meet.
Relationships: John/Sherlock, Johnlock, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79





	Opposite Neighbours - Johnlock (Christmas themed)

The boy’s cheeks were bright red as he laughed with his sister, Sherlock noted from across the road. It was Christmas, a hateful, hateful day of obnoxious family time and a observations battle between him and Mycroft that always ended in them both being sent to their room. It was obvious that his uncle had been having an affair with his ex-girlfriend from their childhood home. He’d said that, and then Mycroft had followed through with that their grandma was fully aware and supportive of it, and now Aunt Lucinda was inconsolable and the pair of brothers were grounded for the “Entire holidays boys, this is a disgrace!”

“This is so dulllllll,” Sherlock had groaned when he had first flopped onto his bed. Mycroft had immediately began to read the wonders of “Molecular Physics: Quantum Applications” At the age of 10, Mycroft was much more intelligent than Sherlock, 6, but still they outranked 70% of the general British Population. 

“I don’t care for them,” Mycroft hummed, referring to their wider family. “It’s actually far more pleasant up here, even despite your presence.”  
Mycroft got grounded on purpose, but for Sherlock, it had simply been an impulse. He had looked at his family members, taken a deep breath, and had then launched into it - or as far as he could get before being rudely interrupted by his introverted older brother. 

Sherlock had found himself drawn to the window sill, where he sat clutching his new sword (very real, a gift from the Earl of Sussex as a Christmas gift. Mycroft had gotten an umbrella) and donning a pirate hat. 

People watching was always a pastime he particularly had a fondness for, even though the people were mind-bogglingly simply to understand. Everyone had the same motives. “Sentiment,” Mycroft had told him at age 4, “is a chemical defect found on the losing side.” 

As a result, Sherlock remembered never to get attached, even if a kind-smiled girl or boy offered him a sweet in exchange for friendship. No, no, the Holmes boys were solitary creatures. 

But this boy, this blond-haired boy, he was reasonably interesting. It was almost as though Sherlock was living a different life, through the boy. He’d been watching him for weeks, convinced they were of similar age. Currently he was chuckling at a joke his sister made, whilst wearing army khakis. Sherlock was rapt, imagining himself in that situation, with that boy. 

“Sherlock, don’t stare,” Mycroft coughed. “It’s not normal.”

“MYCROFT, SHERLOCK! LUNCH!” A bellow came from the banisher. 

“Back into the descent of hell,”

——

Another Christmas, another banishment to their room. This time, Sherlock had explained how his oldest cousin (Thierry, who was French and twenty) was pretending to go to college but was actually a drug dealer, explaining the expensive presents. Mycroft added that Thierry had been doing cocaine for 3 years, based off his sleeves and the state of his nose, an obvious indicator, really. 

Now, Sherlock was 8 and he’d mostly fogotten the blond-haired boy. But as he sat on the windowsill the door across the road opened and out came the family of four. A smiling Mum and Dad, the older sister who was clutching her phone with an intensity that suggested she was hiding something (alcohol addiction) from her parents. Then The blond boy, who wore a cream jumper and jeans and was beaming. 

Sherlock opened the window. The air was mild outside but the boy’s cheeks were still red. He held an action man figure.  
“John, wait up,” The boy’s mum called out to him. They disappeared out of sight just in time for Sherlock’s dad to shout up:

“THE QUEEN’S SPEECH IS ON!” 

Sherlock smiled. John. 

—

The remaining family members had come for another Christmas at the Holmeses. Sherlock’s mum has informed the boys that if they were to talk at ANY point, it would be something nice, or otherwise they would lose the things they loved most dearly (sword and umbrella).

“What did you get this wonderful Christmas, Sherlock?” Uncle Rudy asked Sherlock, who was keeping his lips very tightly pressed together and was shaking violently to stop the observations from flowing out his mouth. 

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft twitched, then launched into it. “Rudy crossdresses. Sorry Rudy.”

“He’s wearing Katy’s lingerie right now,” Sherlock admitted. Both boys looked over at the shocked room, before running up the stairs.

“Don’t tell me you actually wanted to stay downstairs this year?” Mycroft asked scathingly, in the way older brothers always did.

Sherlock hesitated. No, he really hadn’t, but it was potentially better than the alternative. He wasn’t sure he could handle seeing the boy- John.

Sherlock had been harbouring a secret which was very obvious to Mycroft and had had it forced out of him a few months ago: 

“I think....Myc....I think I like boys,” Sherlock bit his bottom lip nervously. “Like Mum loves Dad.”  
Mycroft had stood still for a few seconds, as though processing and then said,  
“It’s Mycroft, not Myc. They gave me a full name for a reason. Remember, Sherlock. Sentiment is a chemical defect. Don’t be on the losing side.” 

And seeing John would just be too much for Sherlock’s little heart to handle. The boy with the blond hair and army obsession was just Sherlock’s weakness. With Mycroft there...it wouldn’t be good. 

“No. But I was hesitant. Rudy’s pretty nice. I didn’t want to get on his bad side

Mycroft glanced to the door. “It’s okay. We’re pretty close. He won’t stop being family.”

“Ha. Like Lucinda ...and Thierry and Jack.”

“Mother and Father haven’t disowned us yet, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Sherlock pretended to be nonchalantly reading, but unlike Mycroft he needed something more stimulating than simple pieces of paper with information on. He glanced out of the window and saw John once again. 

John was slumped, his head on the windowsill as though he was asleep. His body was contorting with wracking sobs. When he looked up and opened his eyes, Sherlock could clearly see bruises dotting across his face. Paternal abuse. Sherlock made the connection instantly. Blatantly obvious really, and from the lack of sister there, John would easily be the next target. He wondered, briefly, if the abuse had been previously directed at the sister, and how far it had gone. 

Sherlock was so lost in his deductions he didn’t realise John was looking at him until John bit his lip and wiped away some of the tears. The younger brother looked to the older, who was engrossed in a textbook, and then smiled at John. A hesitant wave was returned and the smile came easier this time.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, just staring at each other like they didn’t quite know what to do, until John turned suddenly, flinching at what was obviously a shout from downstairs, and gave a pitied smile to Sherlock before waving with finality and disappearing from the window. 

—

It’s been three years since both Holmes boys have been home for Christmas. The first time around, Sherlock was in boarding school and only came home for the day, which was kept just to him and his parents, and Mycroft was in Italy on Important Business. He works for the government now, surprising considering his young age: most would remain at Oxford for longer than Mycroft, although the oldest Holmes was significantly more intelligent than ‘most’. 

That year, when he was alone, he didn’t cause any trouble, and when he was upstairs later on, there was no sign of John. No smiles were exchanged and it was a thoroughly miserable holiday. It had been a thoroughly miserable year, if Sherlock was honest.

But Mycroft was back this year, at the request of their mother. She was adamant that they should get together. Instead of family (as relations were a little tight), their mother invited some close friends - the Joneses. One of their sons attended the same school as Sherlock, both of them aged 14, and unbeknownst to his parents, bullied him compulsively. His mother and father were sure to try to encourage Sherlock to make friends with the daughter whom was a year older than himself. Flirting with girls? Not really his area. Granted, he didn’t flirt with boys either but not for lack of trying! He was just not very blessed in the social side, and would probably be single for life. The Holmes line would die out with him and Mycroft, that’s for sure, as his brother seemed to be deeply obsessed with his work. 

It was nice to know that there was someone relatively sane running the country, for once. 

“Sherlock, dear, would mind running down to the shops to buy a few bags of sprouts?” His mother asked, bustling around the steaming kitchen with the determination of someone just about to get a personal best in the Olympics. “I would go, but my hands are a little tied up here, and you’re faster.”

“Sure,” Sherlock thinks it’s best not to argue. Anyway, he’d like to get out of the house although it’s a shame he can’t do it when the Joneses are here. He might have to conjure up a few deductions....get Mycroft in on it. 

His mum hands him a few pounds and he gets ready to leave, donning a coat and scarf just to lengthen the trip.

“Don’t forget, the Jones family are coming at 2 on the dot, and Mycroft said he would be here at 1:30, so don’t be long!” The woman was crazy: it was only 12:56. How long did she think he would take?

Sherlock thought back to the good old days as he searched for his shoes. Ruining the lives of their family with his Christmas surprise deductions. Mycroft chiming in was always a pleasant addition and then the banishment worked out well for them both. Seeing John, as well, of course.

He was worried about John. The last he’d seen of him was two years back, a brief flash of blond in the window on New Year, a day or two before Sherlock went back to school. Tragic, really. He’d love to be friends with John, but the Universe had willed it that they were only to be opposite neighbours. Truthfully, he’d wondered from time to time if John was dead. Paternal abuse flickered round in his mind, the fear that had flashed across John’s face when he’d heard that shout. What had happened, in those years between John’s happy laughter, the family walks on Christmas Day, what had happened to the family to make John look so shattered, so broken? So unlike the happy, laughing 6-year-old he had first seen on a wintry morning those many years ago...

But surely not, surely John was living still, albeit sadly, in the house across from him. If he had died, his mother would have filtered it back to him in some way, even if she didn’t think he would care. Someone, maybe Mycroft would know of his wellbeing? 

Sherlock left the house and shivered at the bitter frost. England wasn’t often cold on Christmas, and it wasn’t cold enough to have been a perfect White one this morning when all the children peered out of their windows, but it was enough to frost the grass and the cars. He put headphones in - it was a ten minute walk to the shop, or, three songs long, and ambled along. There was no point running: his Mother had enough on the stove right now. The Brussels could wait. A composition or two written by him on his violin, a birthday gift, would be enough to make the day seem less bleak.

And then, a collision. Sherlock’s eyes were not focused, he was thinking about the music and didn’t have time to weave himself out of the way of his fellow pavement wanderer. 

“Sorry,” he muttered in his baritone voice, extracting his earphones for politeness. One would leave them, but only if a heathen or in a city. He was already seen as a sketchy teen by most of the inhabitants, simply from his height and the fact that he rarely emerged from his house when he was home from boarding school, so a little bit of courtesy would be well welcomed. 

“It’s you,” the voice said in awe, and that was when Sherlock actually clicked who it was. 

John. John was here. Standing, right in front of him, talking to him. 

“It is you. The boy from the window,” John looks up at him. John is shorter than Sherlock realised, but that’s okay, because he likes being tall. 

“Oh. I....um. John.” Sherlock’s face flushed: should he apologise for stalking him or for whacking into him on the street, or just for existing? This was so much more embarrassing than Sherlock had envisioned their first conversation to go, mostly on Sherlock’s part. 

“You know my name,” John frowned, as though trying to place him. “But you don’t go to St Bart’s High, do you, so how do you know it?” 

“I board. At a school in Sussex. I...heard someone say your name once and I remembered it,” Sherlock explained. John’s eyes widened as he heard about the school. Sherlock hated it - the school and what it sounds like. He’s not posh, the family just tries to show off wealth by sending him there. Really, he’d do better not going at all, or just being sent to Uni, but apparently it’s a legal requirement, even if Sherlock could teach the classes better than any of the teachers, in a foreign language (just to flaunt that he can). In fact, he did do that once, with Chemistry, in Mandarin, before switching back to English because the teacher looked confused and worried. 

“Well what’s yours then? And why are you out alone, on Christmas morning?” John queries. 

“Sherlock Holmes. I’m going to the shop to get some sprouts, my mother’s request.” Sherlock couldn’t stop staring at John’s pink cheeks, flushed from the cold. He struggled to remember that he was actually having a conversation and should, therefore, make eye contact. 

“Well, a man on a mission. I think I’ll follow you. God knows I don’t have anything better to do!” 

“I’d say you should spend time with your family but obviously that’s not going to happen considering you just told them about your sister’s new girlfriend and the fact that you want to join the army when you turn 16 - don’t, become a Doctor first. It will suit your lifestyle better. Or maybe just don’t go to the army - you can get the adrenaline rush elsewhere. All the army will leave you with is a lifetime of nightmares and a psychosomatic limp. Trust me.” Sherlock rambled, heading to the shop, trusting that John would, in fact, stop following him and head back home. Sherlock really didn’t think he could handle being with the most beautiful boy he’d ever have the fortune of meeting. Everything he learned about him fitted what Sherlock wanted in a companion - driven, compassionate, interesting. Likely to be able to take care of him, calm him down and keep up with his pace. 

“How...how do you know all of that?” John isn’t out of breath, even though he has to take two steps for every one of Sherlock’s. 

“You really don’t want to know,” Sherlock shook his head. No one ever did.

“Of course I do. That was amazing!” Sherlock stopped.

“You really think so? That’s not what people normally say.”

“Yes, amazing, if a bit intrusive with the depth of family knowledge. What do people normally say?” John was biting his lip. 

“Piss off,” Sherlock smiled, remembering the many times Mycroft and he had definitely earned that remark from their family. 

They walked in silence for ten seconds or so before Sherlock explained his deductions in detail to John, who interrupted frequently throughout with shouts of “incredible”, “amazing” and “wow”.

Yes, Sherlock really wanted to keep John.

When they arrived at the shop, he grabbed his pack of sprouts and smiled awkwardly at the cashier, hoping not to spark any small talk. 

John decided to do it for him, launching in with a, “Merry Christmas!” 

“And to you, boys. Those for a Christmas meal?” He pointed to the sprouts. “Is this your first Christmas together?”

Sherlock had often been told that he looked older than his age, despite the paleness of his face and some child-like features he retained. His height was a large factor, and he supposed John didn’t look much like a child either, with his stocky build and light stubble. 

So it wasn’t a shock to him that the cashier thought they were adults, but more that he didn’t really understand what he was saying. Was he trying to ask whether they were roommates? Or separated family? Or, perhaps, was he trying to insinuate that they were together together, as though John were his boyfriend. 

Sherlock just replied, “Yes,” paid, left him another smile and then gestured to John that they should leave. As the two boys pushed the door open the cashier blurted out, “You should hold hands! It’s cold outside!” 

That made Sherlock blush, whether he wanted to or not. Especially when John slid his right hand into Sherlock’s left, which wasn’t, rather crucially, holding the sprouts. 

“The guy’s right. It is pretty chilly,” John stayed matter of factly and begun whistling as they walked back down the street. Both of them had a fast walking pace, Sherlock had noted on the way there, but for some reason, they had slowed on the way back. Perhaps it was the holding of hands, but Sherlock contemplated the idea that neither of them wanted to go their separate ways. 

They said nothing on the way back. The silence allowed them to quietly revel in each other’s company without drawing attention to the fact that their meeting would soon be drawn to a close as soon as they reached Sherlock’s home. 

At the door, Sherlock hesitated. John’s hand slowly slid out of his and grabbed the receipt for the sprouts from Sherlock’s pocket. 

He patted around his jacket for a pen and then, when he found one, went to draw on the receipt before Sherlock intervened. 

“Wait! My mother will want that.” This was a lie, of course. Although his mother was meticulous about such things, it was Christmas. Frankly, it was better if one didn’t look at receipts around Christmas as it would often inflict heart attacks. The sprouts had been £1.27, which wouldn’t dent the Holmes bank account very much, either. But this gave the opportunity for-

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm instead, and Sherlock smirked as he slid the receipt back into his pocket. The numbers were sloppy, but legible, and he memorised them after the third time he looked. 07556 35742

Sherlock took the pen, smiling, and did the same on John’s wrist. 

“Damn, your handwriting is neat,” John muttered, looking at the way the numbers swirled on his hand.

“Goodbye John, for now.” Sherlock tipped his head at John and went towards the door, towards hell, towards Not-John. 

“Wait - Sherlock,” John ran up to him and looked up at his face, placing a hand on his chin and then pulling it down for a kiss. Then he turned and ran, ran back to the other side of the street to the opposite house, for he was an opposite neighbour.

Oh but he was just so much more than that.


End file.
